Posts Tagged ‘Venice film festival’

Zanzibar [at the Venice Film Festa]

In Pat Black on September 12, 2010 at 11:58 am

*Let’s catch up with all the red carpet gossip at the Venice Film Festival, with the King of Snark himself, Lance Zanzibar…
Terrible business, all told. Here I am, in a suit you can’t afford, drinking champagne you’ll never taste, sinking my feet into a carpet which will never burn your knees, cocking a snook at strumpets whose asses you’ll never slap, knowing things you’ll absolutely never know, and still I can’t work out if this Joaquin Phoenix shit is for real or not.

Yes, it’s been a trying time for your humble correspondent, exposed to only the finest food and drink shrieking little businessmen can throw at me for free, easing my way up and down the canals in my private gondola and banging star-struck work experience hacks two and sometimes three at a time. I’m engaging in the kind of clichés you can only dream about – the ones you and the guys snort beer over when you discuss that trip to Vegas you will absolutely never take. It’s called La Dolce Vita, baby. Deal with it.

Marco, my own little stripy-shirted gondolier, has been helping me search this entire town for the choicest gossip regarding I’m Still Here, Casey Affleck’s real-life study of how Phoenix apparently went off the rails and reinvented himself as some kind of half-assed gangsta rapper. All I’ve managed to find out is that Phoenix has managed to have a shave and gotten himself into his Johnny Cash suit since filming wrapped. Is it for real? Is it a hoax? Did someone really crap on his head? Is that actually coke he snorted off some groupie’s pillowy breasts? Do you think they cared, at all? Do you think that halfway through they realised that it was a really tortured, strained joke all along, and that it probably wasn’t going to excite, entertain or interest anyone?

Joaquin, if you’re listening, my harelipped hero, I think you need to peg things down a little. Go back to the tin-foil hat look you sported in Signs – that’s the kind of crazy people can hang their derision on. Read the rest of this entry »

8 Ozon

In Marc Horne on September 5, 2010 at 4:49 pm

So, if I worked for Lawnmowers Monthly, I would not be going to Venice. But the little machine that I write about… she is called The Camera. And she is magical. So I am going to Venice.

Mireille is still asleep, down in the blue. Good. I don’t want to talk. What are you going to say? Some shit about socks, yeah?

I am flying on EasyJet from Charles de Gaulle. So that means you can’t even relax and enjoy your coffee. Because I am outside the little cattle pen where you rush for your seat. But then again all the seats are pretty shitty. There are likely to be no more than 5 attractive women on the flight, so unless you are one of the first ten guys on the plane, then so what. Ok, the cappuccino is good now. The Arab girl who made it for me is looking at me strangely, though.

“No, I’m not Tom Cruise,” I say to her and she laughs. I didn’t notice that she is young and cute before. Now I do. God, my ego is weak. She’s probably a hag with a face like a camel’s ass but I literally can’t see it because she laughed at my joke. I am hoping that the Film Festa will have some adventures so I can kid myself I am still young for another 3 or 4 months. Then I can start looking forward to Cannes.

I am hoisted practically into space. Above me is the unblinking blue eye of god. Below me the source of all meaning. Naturally, I sleep and when I wake I read about biscuits and how much they cost.

I split a speedboat taxi with a guy called René who takes photos for us quite often. He doesn’t care that we are in a place where people wear suits or harlequin costumes: he is going to dress like it is Indochina anyway. And he is going to sweat like it is Indochina. We come round into the Grand Canal and his sweat has me convinced that it is the Mekong Delta. He has so much metal hardware hanging from his khaki vest that part of me wants to push him in the water and have some fun. Ten years ago I would have done it. Now I wonder where all those urges are going. They don’t just fade away. I kind of feel them being put in a pocket in my soul. My soul has as many pockets as that fucking vest, Read the rest of this entry »